


Perfect Velvet

by BipLing



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Existential Angst, F/F, Fluffy Ending, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, attempted arson, got that summertime summertime sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 22:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17754959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BipLing/pseuds/BipLing
Summary: Angela has had a years-old crush turned obsession with Amelie Lacroix, that until recently she has forgotten. A meeting at a hospital party awakens them, driving her to the abandoned Lacroix apartment in an attempt to answer lingering questions.





	Perfect Velvet

**Author's Note:**

> so glad to finally post my piece for the femslash bb uwu

It’s been a very long day for Angela, having just gotten off from her double at the nearby hospital. She tells herself that volunteer work is what gives her life a purpose, but lately she has only been tired, more so than usual; a light bulb threatening to burn out at any given moment. Even as tired as she is, the doubleshot of espresso still running through her veins keeps her from settling down. 

Standing under the stream of hot water, she lets it soothe her aching body, running her hands through her tangled hair. Her feet especially hurt on the hard porcelain of the tub. She sits, curled up on the cold floor, leaning back on her hands. 

Thoughts race through her tired mind, things she normally shoves underneath the surface, barely even noticeable behind the serene smile she puts on, bubble up to the surface. Things she would rather forget that plague her during idle moments decide to stand in the forefront of her mind, an eclipse of her mind. The suffering and pain she’s witnessed, the numerous people she simply could not save, past regrets; they ooze out like toxic sludge. 

Her eyes grow wet, but Angela forces herself to remain steadfast, to be strong as she has all these years. But one can only bottle up so much, especially someone that has seen as much as she. She angrily rubs at her eyes with her knuckles, like that same child that lost her parents so long ago. She can barely remember them at this point, only having photographs to fill in the gaps. It’s okay, she tells herself, that they died doing what they loved, helping people. 

She freezes, eyes unfocusing as a single notion whispers into her ear, “am I going to end up just like them?” Growing silent, she puts on a stony mask, letting the tears fall like mortar fire, swallowing the growing knot in her throat. She wraps her arms around her knees, resting her forehead against them, doing her best to silently cry on the shower floor. But, when it rains, it pours. Her bleeding heart hemorrhages emotion, stabbing her in the gut. 

She misses her parents, she missed Jack, and Gabriel, and even Ana, as much as she disagreed with what they did to her research. They were her friends, her team members, people she got the chance to see her grow up into her role as Mercy. She would do anything to see one of them again, but her life is a solitary one. 

All Angela knows is loss. What’s the point of getting attached to someone, if you know they’ll die one day? 

A glimmer catches her attention, another relic from the past, crawling out from its grave and into the light. She catches herself in her own trap, a spider’s web refusing to let go until she acknowledges it. That pathetic crush she held for so long comes back full force, the french woman dancing around her in circles. Amelie Lacroix, a powerful and intimidating woman, one she only seldom spoke to while accompanying Gerard, she managed to fall hopelessly in love with. 

She knows it’s useless to feel this way, has always known, but she couldn’t help herself. One might call her irrational, but she wanted what she wanted. What would she think to see her like this? Angela straightens, turning the water off. The humid heat from the open window slowly fills the bathroom as she sits, obsessing over the ballet dancer. 

Forcing herself onto sleeping feet, she dries herself off, flicking the remnants of tears from her cheeks. She cannot keep falling into this hole, effectively being a hermit outside of work. She has to do something to dispel this encroaching raincloud.

***

The scream of cicadas fill her ears as she stares at a far off point through her window, a lit cigarette between her fingers, slumping in her chair. The smell of smoke and fresh coffee intermingle in the sticky, hot air pouring through her window to create a cacophony of nostalgic scents. Her hands and back ache from the gardening she had finished, the gloves tossed haphazardly on the couch. 

Angela’s apartment is simplistic, the walls and decor neutral tones. All of her furniture is ornate and vintage, the wood having signs of wear. But, to her, that is what made every single piece special; the wear and tear of age and time. Something she wishes she could experience like her colleagues, both a blessing and a curse. She sits in an open cream blouse and some denim shorts she threw on to do chores, taking yet another drag. Her tired eyes stare off, damp hair falling over her forehead in a tangled mess. A thin sheen of sweat covers her brow and neck, undoing the first few buttons of her shirt, fanning herself with a rolled up magazine. 

The invitation she received lies unfolded before her, much like the patio doors, the curtains shuffling against the wood floor. Apparently the hospital staff is having a little get together tonight, Angela debating whether or not it would be wise of her to show her face. And on such short notice? To be perfectly honest, she had gotten the envelope in her mail weeks prior, simply being too busy to open it. She recognized the handwriting on it as her close colleague’s with the way he carefully wrote out her name in a looping scrawl. As close as they may seem, she still failed to recall his name. This is why Angela preferred to work alone, other people simply got in her way. With how meticulous and exact she is, she earned herself a reputation amongst the staff for being a Grade A Bitch. They weren’t necessarily wrong. 

Taking a long sip of coffee, she rolls her eyes at the thought. Some people simply like to deflect from their own personal inadequacies by resorting to name-calling. It isn’t her fault she got the position as Head of Medicine and yet everyone thinks she slept her way to the top, as if she isn’t the one who pioneered nanotechnology. For once in her life, she agrees with Moira; some people simply cannot recognize greatness. 

Perhaps she should have followed her esteemed colleague to Oasis?

A silly and selfish question, for the people needed her assistance more, no matter how draining it may be. But for Mercy, nothing was too much, no act of selflessness too taxing. Mercy is angelic and strong, Angela is a simple scientist with a wish for peace. Was she wrong to have had such a wish? 

She shifts her eyes down to the invitation, reading over the time she had to be there. Six o’clock sharp. Just enough time to sift through her closet and pick out an outfit; something comfortable yet chic. She decides on a silk button up and pencil skirt, her hair in a practical ponytail. Leaning back on her couch, another cigarette dangling between her lips, she stares up at the ceiling, a hand shielding her eyes from the sunlight. An alarm rings to tell her that it’s time. 

With a sigh, she collects her clutch, hesitating as she locks her door to put on a brave face. Angela never enjoyed the party scene, nor did she plan to, but she had an obligation to go. It was the least she could do to simply show up. 

***

Stepping out of the car and making her way through the doors, she calculates what kind of small talk she should use if approached by one of her colleagues. Wandering through the ground floor searching for a throng of people, she mutters under her breath. “Mein gott, where is it?” 

“Ah, Doctor Ziegler!” A familiar face calls from behind, voice echoing in the bare tiled hallway. 

She glances over her shoulder, “Uh, yes?”

“I’m glad you could make it!” He approaches her, placing an arm around her shoulders. “I assume you’re looking for the party, yeah?” 

“Don’t touch me, please.” She methodically grips his wrist, a formidable pressure that would make any grown man whimper like a dog. He flinches under her grip, easing his arm away. 

“Sorry, you know how forgettable I am.” 

Angela squints into his face, trying to place a name. “Right.” She forces a grin. “So, where are they holding the party? Did I simply overlook it? I’m sure I know this hospital like the back of my hand…” 

“Oh, you mean the cafeteria?” 

“The what?”

“The… cafe?” He shakes his head amusedly, “I know you don’t take breaks often but you didn’t realize we have a cafeteria?”

“...Maybe I didn’t. What about it?” 

“Nothing? Anyway, let’s get going.” He nudges her along, careful to keep his hand light. “I’m sure everyone’s been expecting you.”

“Sure,” She quips. 

They make it to the cafeteria after a few minutes of walking through fluorescent lit halls, fairy lights strung up along the walls inside. Underlings she barely remembers fill the room, separated into their own cliques. Food and drink are on one side, music echoing in the oddly empty room. “Why don’t you say hi to everyone?”

“Must I?” 

“I’m sure they’d all be happy to see you?” 

Angela watches face after face realize she entered, genuine fear and annoyance overcoming their expressions. Ah, so that’s how it’s going to be. She shakes her head, putting on another smile. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll just be… over here…” She gestures to a seat near the door on the emptier side of the cafeteria. 

“But don’t you want to enjoy yourself, Doctor Ziegler?” 

“Please, call me Angela when we’re off the clock.” She glances around, feeling out of place. Perhaps this was a mistake? “As for enjoying myself, I don’t have time for things like that.”

He frowns, “Can’t you stay a little while longer? At least for me?” 

Her expression turns stony, taking out the wine glass she smuggled in her clutch. “You have put me in a very difficult position, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

Angela makes a beeline for the food table, filling her wine glass up with the oddly sweet smelling punch. One sip and she swears her teeth all rotted from its sugariness. Not a single one of her colleagues knows how to mix a drink, typical. With a roll of her eyes, she continues to nurse it regardless. She doesn’t care much as to what’s in it, as long as it does the job. She returns to her seat on the sidelines, acting like a chaperone at a prom, legs folded. 

Her eyes threaten to close, the caffeine in her system having run its course. She stares down into the glass, swirling the remaining alcohol around before gulping it down. She cleans out her glass with a napkin, tucking it back into her clutch. Maybe she needs to get some air, have a smoke? 

She pushes out the side entrance of the hospital, stumbling over the finely manicured grass out to the parking lot, into the shadows at the edges. Angela leans against the building’s wall, camouflaged in cool darkness, taking a drag from her cigarette. Her tension exhales with the smoke, relaxing now that she’s alone. 

Coming here to this silly party was indeed a mistake on her part, a failure to realize she doesn’t play nice with others except when she has to. A sigh escapes her, gazing out into the dark sky, the stars dimmed by the bright lights from the hospital. What does she do now, go back in after her cigarette or call it a night and return home, her tail tucked between her legs? 

In the middle of her musing, the sound of high heels on pavement catches her attention, eyes twitching over to a woman she doesn’t recognize from the party. But, then again, she doesn’t pay enough attention to any of them to pick them out from a crowd let alone their face in a one-on-one scenario. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I needed to get some air - you too, I assume?” The woman has a husky french accent. She wears a blue velvet gown that glows in the pale light, hugging her form. She has a cigarette of her own set between finely manicured fingers, holding it in front of her lips. “Would it be too much to ask for a light from a woman such as yourself?” 

“Ah, of course not,” Angela lights her cigarette, receiving a soft “thanks” in return, leaving a soft blush on her cheeks. “No need to thank me, it’s just my job to help people.” 

“You’re a doctor, are you not?” The woman scoffs, taking a drag. “And yet you’re out here smoking?” 

She groans, “I know, it’s a filthy habit. If it’s any consolation, I don’t smoke that often.” Angela folds her arms, taking a long drag. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing here? You don’t look familiar.” 

The woman loosely shrugs. “Ah, I’m simply visiting a friend who works here. I decided to tag along as a guest to this little party they’re throwing.” She glances around to make sure no one is within earshot, leaning in to whisper to her. “Between you and me, this party is a total bore. I’m glad I managed to find a beautiful woman to spend the rest of my time with.” 

Angela stutters, “Ex-Excuse me?” 

The woman smirks in the shadow, eyes soft as satin even in the low light. “You heard me, Cherie.”

Angela and this mystery woman go back and forth for at least an hour, mostly consisting of Angela venting about work and her daily life, the woman seeming oddly sympathetic to a complete stranger. She would never tell her, but she may have a small crush. “So…”

“So?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, and forgive me if it’s odd, but what is the story with that tattoo of yours? It must have taken ages.” The woman glances down at her forearm, the interlaced, zig-zagging lines etched into her skin. Crickets fill the empty silence, a drop of sweat rolling down Angela’s brow. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“So, how about this weather we’re having, hm? It’s rather humid out here, is it not?” There’s a hard edge to her words. 

“...Yes, it is? It’s rather nice though.” Angela drawls, snubbing out her cigarette underneath a heeled foot. “It’s a perfect night, if you’d ask me.”

“And I did just that.” 

Angela is unsure of how to respond, her wine drunk brain telling her to say something idiotic, something completely unlike her. But, that would only make her seem foolish. “I-”

“You don’t have to pretend, you know? I can tell how much you want me,” She chuckles at her expression. “You think you’re so good at hiding your emotions, don’t you?” 

Angela straightens, huffing out a response, “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m not trying to do anything.”

“There’s no point in hiding behind a mask, I can see right through you.” The woman levels her sultry gaze onto Angela, releasing a sigh as warm as May. She fails to realize the coldness in her eyes, instead focusing on her full lips set into a soft pout. She eases closer to Angela, brushing shoulders, leaning in rather closely. The smell of lavender floats over her, the urge to kiss this stranger she only met an hour ago washing over her. 

But, she doesn’t have to make a move, for the woman does it for her, a hand caressing Angela’s jaw, gripping her chin. Her thumb toys with her lower lip, eyeing her like a panther prepared to pounce. Which is exactly what she does, kissing Angela with a fervor she had almost forgotten, traces of smoke on her lips. Her reaction is subdued, too close to being swept away in the moment, fingers aching to hold her. The woman places Angela’s hands on her waist, taking the reins for the time being. “Come on, kiss me. You know you want to.” 

Her nimble fingers wind their way into Angela’s hair, undoing the ponytail she had in, hair falling onto damp skin. The years of loneliness crack through her carefully crafted armor, the facade of perfection unwinding. She peppers Angela’s jaw and neck with feather light kisses, whispering sweet nothings to her in her native tongue. Angela takes her face in her gentle hands, a familiar smug grin on the woman’s face as she goes in for a kiss of her own. 

They slowly make out, breath mingling in the summer night air as she presses Angela up against the cold brick. “Would you like… to come back to my place?” Angela poses this question between deep breaths, catching her breath before they dive back in. “I just don’t want to be alone tonight.” 

She scrunches up her face, eyes flicking up to the side in thought. “I don’t know if I can. I have other things to get to, I’ve just been killing time until then.” 

“O-Oh? Have I been keeping you from it?”

“Non, non, trust me, I’ve enjoyed myself,” She pats her face, voice low and sultry. 

“You know, I don’t even know your name… what is it?” She sits in silence, jaw tensing at the question. “Did I say something stupid again?”

She merely shakes her head, “You can call me Blue Velvet, Cherie.” The woman takes a step back, a hand on her hip. “Now then, I have to return to my friend, wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, you understand, right?” 

“Of course!” She clenches her hands into sweaty fists, “Will I be able to see you again, though?”

A broad smile crosses over her crush’s face, something in the expression striking fear into Angela’s heart. “Perhaps.” With that, she saunters back into the hospital, leaving Angela out on her own. 

***  
Back in her apartment, stumbling through the door, Angela tosses her things onto the couch, raking fingers through loose hair. Did she do something wrong to turn the woman off? She must have slipped up at some point, gave her the wrong impression. 

A stake drives its way into her heart, the understandable rejection still digging deep. Why is she acting like this over a stranger of all people? She hardly knew the woman, so what does it matter? 

She stands in the middle of her living room, hands clutched to her flushed, drunken face as she glances around herself at her cluttered apartment. The only signs of it being lived in are the used ashtray and coffee cup from earlier in the afternoon. The ceiling fan casts dark shadows over her, spinning lazily. Her face is flat, a faint touch of a guardian angel caressing her shoulder from above. She feels light as a feather, her skin tingling and numb. But deep inside her is a heavy weight, a dying star ready to go supernova, a black hole slowly draining her. One day she fears it might suck her up entirely, leaving a husk where Angela Ziegler once stood. 

She tugs a cigarette out from her clutch on the couch, groping blindly for her lighter. She tucks it between her lips, the flickering flame reflecting in her eyes. Taking a long drag, she lets the smoke slip out from between parted lips, staring at a far off point into the darkness of her kitchen. Shadows creep along the walls, held at bay by the singular light in the ceiling. She sits like this for five minutes, violent emotions shining through her blue eyes, painfully aware of something breaking. Angela isn’t aware of what it is, doesn’t want to know, for she’s grown so used to these phases that she doesn’t bother analyzing them anymore. The tightly strung wires that keep her stable loosen, releasing a self-destructive typhoon. 

At first, it’s something small, a singular glass shattering against hard concrete that she throws. The act itself brings so much pleasure, she hardly notices the pain. She moves like a robot into the kitchen, taking the half empty bottle of Merlot from the fridge, and shuffling back to the living room. She sits on the couch, posture stiff and tense. The bottle of wine held in her fingers is a gun, a thing she knows will only bring her harm. But, she wishes so badly to chase the familiar high from earlier in the night. 

Angela fires the gun, taking a big gulp straight from the bottle. The more she drinks, the more things come to mind that she normally refuses to acknowledge; the death of her parents and her state of utter isolation. The doctor can hardly remember what it was like to be a child, to have a normal childhood, a thing she missed out on. She recalls a fuzzy picture at the age of nine, a perpetual filter over it, making it seem like a nostalgic home movie you could fondly watch years after the fact. 

It is a cold November day, she’s swathed in black, clutching the hand of Torbjorn. She stares as they lower their caskets into dark pits, watching until she can no longer make them out. She didn’t cry that day, refused to do so, for even at the tender age of nine, she knew of the evils the world had in store. At the drop of a hat, a blink of an eye, everything could change for the worse. She had no other choice but to grow up. 

Perhaps it was this mistake that lead her to the state she’s in now? What would little Angie say if she could see her now, drinking excessively, alone in her apartment? A silly hypothetical, for that little girl has refused to exist for years. There is no use in regretting things that are set in stone and yet here she is, doing exactly that. 

She stands onto wobbly feet, the desire to move, to go somewhere filling her mind. But, even in her drunken state, she knows that would be a Bad Idea. So she makes due with wandering her apartment, back and forth between rooms, staring at the jail-like walls. She leaves a trail of bloody feelings as she backtracks, her body moving mechanically at this point, her brain sunk into the ocean. Angela hardly remembers putting on a record, let alone which record it was. A classical piece rings from the dining room table, the tune bouncing around in her empty head. She makes an attempt to drown her feelings out with the music, to get lost in the melody. 

She dances by herself in the middle of her living room, swaying as she takes swigs from a second bottle. Angela Ziegler doesn’t need anyone or anything, all she needs is herself. She’s managed to get through the years just fine, has she not? Sure, a couple of things might be broken, but there was no avoiding it. 

Other people only get in the way, she tells herself, a mantra she repeats every now and then to keep the crippling loneliness at bay. Except tonight, it creeps through every crevice like the red death, an emotionless mask on its face as it does its worst. She cries into the empty space, loud and painful. She cries and cries and cries. All she wants is someone to hold her at night, to tell her everything is going to get better, to help carry the heavy weight on her heart. 

But she knows better than to think this way. Many a woman had come into her life with her stint at the hospital, every time keeping them at an arm’s length. There is no way someone could love this ugly side of herself, a small, trembling child that she stuffs in her closet at the first signs of distress. It’s the only method she has of defending herself, for to be vulnerable is to show weakness, a thing for others to potentially exploit. She cannot give anyone that opportunity, keeping vigilant watch for danger. 

If she simply denies the possibility for things to go wrong, then nothing bad could ever happen to her. 

She’s a fool for craving something such as a relationship, for the only one who can shine a light in her heart is her, her one and only. Angela drinks until she blacks out, passing out on the couch in her party dress. 

***

The moment she opens her eyes, a gong pounds in her head, signalling the beginning of an all day hangover for her. The empty bottles lie on the floor, dress wrinkled from the awkward angle she slept in. She covers her face with a hand as she tugs the curtains shut, leaving her in the dark. A thin line of light peeks through, breaking the room into two halves. 

Angela strips out of her clothes, dropping them in the hamper on her way into her room. A four poster bed sits in the corner farthest from the window, a dresser across from it. She has a few sentimental photos and knick knacks along the nightstand, little else in the room besides the case her caduceus staff is held in. Slipping into a lace robe, she fixes herself a cup of coffee, settling into the armchair back in the living room. She flicks on her comm, lazily scrolling through notifications. A cup of coffee sits on the table, feet resting on the edge. 

A singular unread email jumps out at her from the hospital, the subject in bold caps. 

ATTENTION: ALL HOSPITAL STAFF

With a sigh, she opens it, wondering what could possibly be of such importance. As she reads - well, more like skims - the gravity of the situation becomes obvious to her. A doctor was found in an office this morning, dead. They assumes there must’ve been foul play at hand, urging everyone to be on high alert until the culprit is found. Her mind wanders to the woman last night, playing her words back over and over like a cassette tape. She can practically hear the clicks as she pauses, rewinds, and plays it again. The woman had somewhere to be, a friend to attend to - perhaps this was what she meant? 

But, this is merely her grasping at straws. It could’ve been any number of people. For all she knows, she could’ve had a friend bring her along. But, wouldn’t she have given her their name, then? She leans back in her chair, glancing at the date on the email. June twenty fifth. Gears turn in her head, trying to recall the significance of it, the memory on the tip of her tongue. It hits her full-force like a train, its lights blinding her just before impact. 

“Gerard.” She whispers this word to herself without fully realizing it, as if she had woken up from a fever dream, damp with sweat, only having that word to remember. Of course, how could she forget the anniversary of his death? 

No wonder she’s been more of a mess than usual, it’s the day everything slipped from her fingers. Her hand clenches against her thigh as her thoughts turn to that of Amelie, what fate has become of her after all these years? Her eyes grow cold, scoffing at herself, asking a question she knows the answer to. After the Lacroix Incident, she had told - more like lied to - Ana, Gabriel, and Jack about what had happened at the apartment. She told them she was MIA or presumed dead, that she hadn’t come into contact with her. Fortunately, she managed to fool them. Yet another secret she’s kept with her, another skeleton added to her collection. 

She wonders, what has become of that old apartment of theirs? Surely it must be renovated, all the things she only saw through fluttering curtains in the summer when she was passing by must be changed by now, right? Angela bites her lip, needing to see for herself to confirm her theory. Until now, she had gone multiple different routes in order to simply avoid the place when she would pass through, not wanting to be reminded of her mistake. But it seems that she’ll have to go back to that place, relive that terrible night. 

With a sigh, she gets herself ready, steeling herself yet again for what’s to come. 

***

The ride to the apartment is shorter than she remembers, sitting in the back seat of a cab, hands clasped in her lap. She stares out the window, little flashes of memories teasing her, things she had failed to truly notice in the moment. All of them were Amelie, mere shots of her profile. She was always gazing at Gerard with such an apparent love it made Angela envious. How she spent hours longing for Amelie to look at her in the same way, her puppy dog crush fueling rosy fantasies. Of course, all it was was a crush. She played that in her head whenever the happy couple would walk by, hoping she could snap herself out of the rut she was in. But, it clearly never worked. 

Angela was a woman hopelessly in love with someone unattainable. Besides, there is no way a rich, powerful woman such as herself could be attracted to a neurotic ball of nerves. She continues to play these short clips of Amelie, but eventually the screen goes dark. Angela tries to distract herself from thinking about it before it happens, before she sees the face that fuels her nightmares. A singular, pale face in the moonlight, eyes glowing in the darkness. 

“Angela,” it whispers, in Amelie’s voice. 

Before it can continue, the car comes to a stop, the screen goes blank. She thanks the driver, stepping out of the car. The smell of fresh rain fills her nose, popping open her plastic umbrella. The click of her heels on wet pavement echoes throughout, the street dead in the early morning. Angela brushes down the silky fabric of her dress, wrapped in a simple black number. It’s as if she’s attending the funeral she went to before, seated all the way in the back. She wanted to be as far away from Gerard’s body as possible, not daring to see his face. 

She left the funeral early, faking sickness. 

Angela makes the slow ascent to the room, dragging her feet as she goes. The final stretch feels like an eternity, a tense air that only grows tighter as she approaches The Door. The plaque is still beside it, the Lacroix name etched in gold lettering. It shines in the soft light, flicking her eyes from it to the door knob. Out of curiosity, she tries it, hoping it’ll be locked so she can turn around and march herself back home. 

But, to her surprise, it silently opens, swinging inwards. A wall of cold hits her, pouring out from the apartment. She steps through, eyes wandering over the pure emptiness of it all. The furniture is still here, everything in its place. Running a hand over the back of the couch, its cold to the touch. 

Piles of bouquets sit on the coffee table, all the petals withered and dried. There are more on the couch itself, laid side by side with care. The faint smell of lavender is in the air, making her think of a mausoleum. The patio doors are shut, the curtains drawn back to let the sun in. The further she inspects, the more she realizes that everything is exactly the same as it was before Gerard’s death and Amelie’s disappearance. Their photos line the walls, happy memories now empty and hollow. The smiling faces taunt her.

She runs a finger over the back of a chair in the dining room, little to no dust coming up. It’s as if someone came in and sterilized the entire apartment, turning it into a museum. Surely it couldn’t be Gerard’s own family, she assumed they sold it years ago. Someone must be here still. But who?

Angela continues searching, now with a purpose in mind, to find out who has been visiting so frequently. When she comes to their room, down the familiar narrow hallway, she takes a deep breath to brace herself for what she may see. Thrusting the door open, her eyes shut tight, she waits. The smell is the same as throughout the rest of the apartment, letting out a sigh of relief. Even with her mind at ease, she can still smell the undertones of blood. 

She looks through half-lidded eyes, creeping into the bedroom. There is no shape under the covers, no blood splattered on the walls. Everything is perfect and still. Their wedding photo sits on the nightstand in its golden frame, being drawn to it. She holds it in her hands, running a thumb over Amelie’s glowing face. Tears well up at the corners of her eyes, guilt stabbing her in the back. Guilt for what she could’ve done, what she should’ve done in the first place. 

But, she let her feelings get in the way of protocol. 

Angela had been called to the Lacroix residence as a first responder. No one would tell her the situation, only answering her questions with somber glances. She steps through the threshold and nothing seems out of place, aside from the patio doors being ajar, a gentle breeze shifting the curtains ever so slightly. A half empty bottle and glass of wine sit on the coffee table.

“In here, Doctor Zeigler.” Angela is lead further into the apartment, tracing smears of blood along the walls and floor to the bedroom. She eases the door open, being met with the overwhelming stench of dried blood and death. In the dark light, she can make out Gerard’s body lying on the bed, blood spattered all around him. She clutches a hand to her mouth, eyes widened in disbelief.   
“It can’t be…” She whips around to a nearby assistant, jaw hard. “Do we have any idea who did this?”

“From what we’ve been told, there was only one person who could’ve done it.” 

Angela clenches her hands tightly, letting out a shaky breath. “How? There is no way she of all people could’ve-”

“She’s the only one who would have been able to.” They flip through holonotes. “Besides, there has been no trace of her since the incident hours prior.” 

She holds a hand to her forehead, stomach churning. “I’ll just be a moment, you can start without me.” 

She steps through the rest of the apartment, careful to avoid the trail of blood and wine, easing the fluttering curtain to the side. A flash of white flickers in the corner of her eye and she knows exactly who it is. A black silhouette against the moonlight, leaning against the railing, glancing out at the rest of the city. Her nightgown flutters in the wind.

“Too guilty to look at me, Amelie?” She scoffs, narrowing her eyes.

“Oh, Angela, don’t be silly.” The shadow chuckles, cocking her head in Angela’s direction. The moment she lays her amber eyes on her, an icy chill runs through Angela’s body. Malicious intent exudes from her predatory gaze. “I don’t feel a thing.”

She squares her shoulders, hand on the pistol at her side. “Amelie, I don’t want to hurt you. I just need you to step back into the apartment.”

Amelie laughs again, staring down her nose at her. “That’s not going to happen, Cherie.” 

“Please!” She implores. “If you cooperate, I won’t have to-” She breaks off, grimacing.

“Won’t have to what?” Those cold wolf’s eyes stare her down, lips twisted into a smug grin. “Kill me?” She squints, sneering with absolute disgust. “I think we both know you don’t have it in you to shoot me.” Amelie flicks her hair to the wind, tilting her head. “If you can’t even manage to speak to her without stuttering, I doubt you’d even make the effort to incapacitate me.” 

Angela glowers up at her, hands shaking as she sets her sights onto Amelie. She gulps, taking shallow breaths, her heart in her throat. “I’m not going to repeat myself-”

Amelie, surprisingly, makes a rather graceful movement from the railing to Angela, easily disarming her. Angela makes no effort to fight back. She stands there, her eyes on Amelie’s bare feet as they walk towards her. She’s defeated, there’s nothing left in her. Her hair brushes against her, breath cold on her skin as she whispers into her ear. 

“What will you do, Doctor? Snitch on me?” Angela remains stiff as a statue. Amelie pats the side of her face, snorting out a laugh. “Good girl. You always do what you’re told, don’t you?” 

She let her get away. 

“Don’t touch that.” A stern voice orders from behind her, one that she’s heard often in her childish daydreams. She slowly turns, locking eyes with that same amber. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” 

She stutters out a response, “it was unlocked.”

Amelie is also dressed in black, her dark hair in a high ponytail. The first thing Angela notices is the color of her skin, a pale blue. “What happened to you…?” 

“I can’t believe they left the door unlocked! I pay good money to keep this place clean and they can’t even manage to lock the door?” Amelie mutters to herself, snatching the photo from Angela’s hands, wiping the fingerprints off on her skirt. 

“Amelie-”

“Amelie Lacroix has been dead for years - just like her pathetic husband.” She stares Angela down, spitting out venomous words. “You should be glad I don’t kill you where you stand.” 

“Surely you don’t mean that, do you? You loved him.” 

Amelie pauses, her expression blank. “She loved him - I never felt anything for him, he was just a target to eliminate.” She presses a finger into her chin, coyly grinning at her from the doorway. “Would you like to know how I killed him - ah, desolee, you already know that, don’t you?”

A passive-aggressive clinicality oozes out from Angela’s voice. “You stabbed him to death. One might have called it a crime of passion.”

“What can I say? The man wouldn’t stay dead.” She shrugs. 

Angela musters up from deep inside the courage she failed to have that night, stepping forward with purpose, daring to get in Amelie’s face. “And why are you here exactly? To revisit the scene of the crime? Bask in the glory of killing your dear husband - killing Gerard!?”

Amelie is cool as the placid surface of a lake. “And why are you here?”

Angela flushes bright red, an unusual thing for being in the face of her potential killer and years long object of affection. She clutches her hand against her chest, reeling back from the loaded question. “I… I came to pay my respects. That’s all.”

“That can’t be the only reason?” Amelie leans back, cradling the photo like a baby. 

“Well, there is something else.” She grips fistfuls of her dress, stammering out her heartfelt confession. “I thought that if I came here, I would see you again.” She bites her lip. “If I’m going to be perfectly honest, I’ve always loved you. I never said anything because - because, well, you were married! It wasn’t my place.”

“You don’t even know me, Ziegler,” she says, stepping out of the room. 

Angela follows her, trailing behind. “But - but - I would love to! I want to help, Amelie. At the very least I can do that! I know something’s wrong, I know you’re not over Gerard’s death! Just-”

Amelie pauses to glance over her shoulder, monotone. “Let me repeat myself; you don’t know anything about me and you never will.” She waves her away like one of her maids. “I’m sure you know where the door is, yes? If you leave now, I’ll pretend none of this ever happened.” 

“But, I can’t do that? Please, just let me help you, I’m sure there’s something that can be done?”

“I’m not worth your time.” She stops in the middle of the living room, glancing out the glass of the patio door. There it is, the profile she spent so much time memorizing. The light falls on her in such a way that makes Angela’s heart skip a beat. The soft pout of her lips, the gentle curve of her jaw; they all make the longing she’s felt that much stronger. A forlorn expression is on her face, traces of sadness in her eyes. 

A fire lights under Angela, eyes burning with an indignant passion. “You’re absolutely worth my time! I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t care.” She presses a hand to her chest, her heart thrumming just under the surface. “Sure, my intention was to relive the nostalgia, but this is my chance - our chance - everything can be turned around, I’m sure of it!”

As Angela speaks, Amelie continues making her rounds around the apartment, plucking frame after frame from the wall with such care and delicacy. She stacks them in her hands, the wedding photo the only one visible. 

“What are you doing?”

She ignores her. Angela eyes the tattoo on her forearm, recalling the woman from last night. Blue Velvet, she called herself. With a roll of her eyes, she grits her teeth, realizing the connection her drunk self didn’t pick up on. Amelie had visited the hospital, but for what reason?

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

“You have to be more specific than that, Doctor. I’ve killed many men.” 

“Why did you do it? What reason did he have to die?”

She grins. “I simply do what I’m told, I don’t ask questions.” With a cock of her head, she replies, “do you not do the same?”

Angela takes a step back, mouth agape. “I- I simply do what I think is best! Yes, I follow orders, but it’s not my business to know the intentions behind them.” She glowers. “All I care about is saving people’s lives. You should know that better than anyone.”

Amelie’s face darkens, tightening her grip on the frames. Her voice is a chill winter wind. “Then why couldn’t you save him?” With that, she piles all the photos into the crook of one arm to free a hand, strolling around the couch to the coffee table. A fresh bouquet is laid on top of all the rotted roses, Amelie leaning over to pick up a gasoline can, full from how heavy it seems for her. 

“What are you doing with that?” Sweat drips down the back of Angela’s neck, fingers twitching. “And what do you mean? He was dead on the scene.”

Amelie slams the gasoline can down onto the table, staring her down with a murderous intent she’s only ever seen during that far-off night. “He wasn’t dead, you fucking imbecile! I left him alive! He was alive!” She practically screams, hot, angry tears rolling down her face. Her voice lowers to a mutter, “he would still be alive if it weren’t for your obsession with me.”

With that she picks the can back up, dabbing her eyes on the back of her forearm. Amelie tilts the can, pouring a good amount of gasoline directly onto the carpet, the smell filling the room. Angela can only stand there in shocked silence, fear in her throat keeping her from speaking. Amelie walks past her into the kitchen, a thick trail of gas on the previously pristine carpet and wood floors. Angela pursues her, stopping in the threshold. “What- what are you doing!?”

Amelie pauses her pouring, shoulders stiff with annoyance. “I’m getting rid of this place - all these memories that have been haunting me since that day, they’re all going to go up in flames,” she states. “You had better leave now if I were you.”

“I’m not going anywhere until we sort this out!” She makes a move to snatch the can away, holding it by the bottom. They have a tug-of-war, neither willing to give it up. All the while, gasoline is sloshing haphazardly. “Don’t you want to preserve this in Gerard’s memory? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”

“I have all I need with me. There’s too many memories here…” Amelie glances throughout the kitchen, having previously kept her eyes to the floor. “I don’t want to keep reliving them, all they do is hold me back!” She cries, “why can’t you realize that!? You can’t hold onto a memory forever, Angela! You have to move on at some point!” She wins the battle, pulling the can out of Angela’s stunned grip. “You have to face reality. Amelie has been dead for years, I’m all that’s left.”

Angela balls her hands into fists, exclaiming, “No!” 

“...No?”

“I don’t believe it for one minute!” She points an accusatory finger. “There’s still hope for you, Amelie! We can do something… please… just let me try…” Her hands reach out, groping for something, anything. “I want to make things better. It’s the least I can do, isn’t it?” She smiles, faint and tired, like a wilting flower. “I hope you can someday forgive me for ruining everything for you.” She cries herself. “I guess I’m stupid for wanting someone so beyond my league huh?”

“You didn’t have a ghost of a chance, Cherie.”

“L-Let me fix everything! I can make it up to you!” She babbles, falling onto her knees in the slick gasoline. Amelie pours the last of it, tossing the can to the side. She takes a step towards Angela, cupping her face in her hand.

“Oh, Angela… dear, sweet Angela…” For a moment her voice is sweet as honey. “Don’t be stupid. Can’t you see? It’s all about to be over.” She takes a lighter from the kitchen table where she must’ve left it, the flame flickering to life. Amelie shrugs. “I’m going to burn this fucking house down and everything in it.”

“Take me with you.”

“Excuse me?” She scoffs. 

“I want to go with you - please.” Angela grabs hold of Amelie’s ankles, groveling at her feet. “I’m tired of feeling this way! How am I supposed to help people when I can barely help myself!?” Her voice is muffled as she sobs. “I don’t care anymore! I don’t care! I don’t care!” She pulls herself up, mere inches away from Amelie’s face. Her cheeks are flushed with emotion, eyes red-ringed. “Please, let me go!”

Amelie openly rolls her eyes. “Trust me, the feeling will pass.” She reaches out to pat her face, crouching down. “You were meant to do great things, to save lives - is that not enough for you? What else could you possibly want?”

“...I want you.” Her eyes lower, avoiding Amelie’s sharp gaze. She feels like a stupid teenager with a crush. Amelie’s nimble fingers slip over the back of Angela’s neck, gripping a fistful of her hair. She holds her in place, appraising her. 

“Is that so?” She grins, her lips closer than she remembered. That familiar lavender smell surrounds her, a whirlwind of feelings coming out in the form of more white-hot tears. With shaky hands, Angela grabs hold of her by the shoulders, their kiss just as unsteady and emotional. They break, Angela tasting the salt of tears on her lips. Amelie’s eyes are distant and shiny, holding back dangerous feelings. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Please? Just the two of us?”

Amelie bites her lip, considering. “The world needs Mercy - what have I done to deserve it?”

Angela lightly shakes her. “You have to let me in if you want me to be of any help! I can’t do anything if you don’t open up!”

“You really don’t want me to do that.”

“I’m sure I do, it’s the only way we can move on from this…” She takes the photos from her, placing them on a nearby counter so she can hold her more easily. Angela cradles her in her embrace, eyes closed, sniffling. “...Together. The world may have dealt us a bad hand, but I’m sure we can make it away from this mess if we try - what do you say?”

Amelie’s jaw clenches, exhaling a deep breath through her nose. “I suppose I can at least try.” 

A grin quivers to life, hugging her a bit closer. “I’m so glad!” The waterworks start up again, pressing her forehead into Amelie’s shoulder. “I promise I won’t mess this up! I’ll be the best girlfriend you could ask for!”

“Angela.”

“...Yes?”

“If you’re going to cry, try not to cry on my Versace. Please,” she sighs. “This is dry clean only.”

Angela pulls back, laughing at herself. “Ah, I’m sorry.” She wipes at her eyes. “I’m just so happy… it’s like I haven’t felt this way in years.”

“Join the club.” 

***

They sit together on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, in silence. Where Angela is soft, Amelie remains hard as marble. Her arm sits around Amelie’s shoulders, as gentle as ever. She stares down into the flowers on the table, absolutely nothing inside of her. An emptiness is all she has known for years since she killed Gerard, coming here in an attempt to keep his memory alive. Every day she sees him in the most mundane of settings, dressed in the tuxedo from their wedding. He gives her the same tender smile, a twinkle in his eye that would only come when he was looking at her, and then it’s gone. It’s the only time that the Widowmaker lets herself cry.

For that is all she is anymore, the only identity she has to cling to; the infamous Widowmaker. Amelie Lacroix died that night and she was born from the ashes, like some cursed phoenix. She hardly remembers who she is anymore, who she was supposed to be, was going to be. None of that matters. She thought that paying tribute and drinking her life away would keep the bubbles from popping up, the near constant picture dancing in the ballroom. Even though the marble is old and crumbling, that scene is all she has left. She can’t let go. Even just thinking about it brings back the rush of memories; the crisp feel of his jacket under her fingers, the smell of roses and cologne in the air, the music in the air. Everything was good in that night, in that moment. 

Who would’ve known everything would change in a single night. It’s funny, thinking that things will stay this way forever, but nothing can stay golden. A single tear rolls down her cheek, a break in her dam. She lets it fall, taking Angela’s hand in hers. The whisper she hears only makes it harder to stay composed, tears getting through the cracks. “I love you.”

“You don’t - you can’t possibly-”

“But, I do.” Angela leans in to press a kiss to her cheek, smudging the mascara tears that stain her skin. “It’s okay, we can go slow with this - however long you need.”

Amelie shakes her head. “No, it’s not that. I’m not worried about that.”

“Then what is it?”

“...I’m terrified.” Her voice wavers, as if she’s at the top of a hill during a windy day. She’s barely audible, saying nothing more than that. Angela waits, eyes on her face. 

“Of…?” She probes, squeezing her hand a little bit tighter.

“I don’t want to be alone again.” Amelie folds in on herself like a cheap suit, dropping the tough act. For once, she doesn’t look like the emotionless killing machine she’s been built up to be, she’s just a person, dealing with scars from the aftermath of something beyond her control. Angela makes a move to comfort her, but she rushes up from her seat. “No, you - you don’t get it!”

“What do you mean?” She nudges her to sit back down, but Amelie flicks her hand away. 

She balls her hands into fists, lower lip quivering. “I shouldn’t be doing this - with you of all people. We both know what’s going to happen tomorrow morning; this will all blow over and we’ll go back to living our separate lives.” Amelie grins, bittersweet. “I don’t deserve something like you, anyway.”

“But-”

“No, it’s fine. You don’t have to say anything. I’d prefer if you didn’t.” She runs a hand over her forehead, sucking in her bottom lip as she thinks it all over. “It’s my fault we’re here, isn’t it?”

“You weren’t yourself, Amelie-”

“That’s the thing, I’m not myself. I haven’t been in so long, I’ve been drifting from place to place, thinking that being consumed by anger would make everything disappear.” She pauses. “But, lately, it’s only gotten worse. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat - he’s the only thing I can focus on.” As she goes on, in the corner of her eye he’s there, leaning against the wall beside the patio door, but she dares not look at him. He’s just a phantom, a figment of her imagination and guilt that’s come to torment her. His voice echoes in her ears, replaying over and over like a broken record. 

“I love you.”

She’s grown so numb, but hearing him, even if it’s just a memory, makes her break down. Amelie snatches the bouquet she brought off the table, throwing it in his direction. “Shut up!” She yells at the empty space. Her anger subsides and she curls up on carpeted floor. “Just leave me be…”

The ticking of the clock is endless, Angela bending down to offer a hand. “Come on, you have to get up.”

“No.” Amelie doesn’t bother looking at her. “I’m fine where I am.”

She sits perched on the low coffee table, tossing dead roses behind her to make room, hands clutching its edge. “That’s okay - but you have to talk to me, Amelie.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything, I just want you to talk.” A soft smile comes to life. “It doesn’t have to be about Gerard, it can be whatever you want. We can talk about him when the time is right, okay?”

Amelie, from her spot on the floor, flicks her eyes up to Angela, but doesn’t speak. 

“Alright, I’m more than fine with talking if you won’t.” She waves her closer, letting her cling to her legs like a child. “How about I tell you a little story?”

“I’m not a child, Angela.”

“No, you’ll like this one, I promise.”

“If this is about me, I assure you I won’t like it.”

“Just listen, alright?” She takes a breath, clearing her throat to put on her reading voice. “I remember so long ago, a woman who was breathtakingly beautiful and headstrong. I admired her, mostly from afar, thinking that she would never take notice of me.” She waits for a reaction, seemingly not getting any. “She was like a diamond, one of the strongest people I’ve ever seen. Until one day something shattered inside her and she wasn’t the same.” 

“What’s the point of this exactly?”

“What I’m trying to say, is that I’m here to help you pick up the pieces.” She looks Amelie directly in the eyes. “You just need someone to get you back on your feet.”

She does her best to avoid her unwavering gaze, silently laying her head on Angela’s lap. Amelie is done fighting with her, knowing this conversation will only go in circles. She has faith in her that no one but Gerard has had, the belief that she’ll be fine if she has something to keep her grounded. Amelie never was one for simple ideas, her ambitions too big to stay in her own head. Her dancing career was what sparked it, the desire for recognition in a household that barely gave her a second look. Too often she would let herself float into the clouds, but he was there to pull her back down. 

She’s been adrift in that sky, floating aimlessly, feeling nothing, getting too close to the sun once or twice. If only it had successfully burned her to ash. But, she was too valuable once upon a time to be allowed the release of death. Amelie was so close to being with her husband once more, but even that is dangled in front of her like a carrot on a stick. An incentive to go on, to listen to orders. 

But she’s grown tired of being a tool, a weapon. She wants… she isn’t sure what, but perhaps this is the shove she needs in the right direction? After all this time, something good might come out of this. 

After minutes of quiet, she answers. “Alright.”

Angela blinks. “What?”

“I said alright. If you want to waste your time on me, that’s your choice. I’m not going to stop you.” She lowers her voice. “Just don’t tell anyone about this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Angela opens her arms, Amelie entering her embrace. 

***

Angela coaxes her out onto the patio, the scent of newly fallen rain in her nose. It evokes the feeling of something fresh and clean. They sit underneath the awning in the threshold, propping the door open, letting the stuffy, gasoline tinged air filter out. She has a tender hand around Amelie’s shoulders, the assassin resting her head against hers. Time had gotten away from them, the silhouette of the city dark against the vibrant sunset. Oranges, pinks, and purples fill the sky, fading away with the dying tension. 

“So, you still want to burn this place down?”

Amelie sighs, nuzzling her head further into the crook of Angela’s neck like the comfiest pillow. “I wish I still had it in me to do so. You’ve convinced me otherwise.”

“I’m glad.” The angel presses a kiss to her forehead. “Where would you like to go from here?”

She takes a few moments to form an answer, lips slightly parted. Her eyes are focused on the darkening sky, fingers tightening around Angela. “I don’t know.”

Angela lets out a light-hearted laugh, expecting something more pessimistic. “We don’t have to do anything yet, but I’m sure you need a place to sleep, don’t you?”

Amelie shakes her head. “I would hate to impose on you myself any further - how would I repay you?”

“No need, I’m doing this because I care about you.”

She bites her lower lip, looking at her in the eye. Her brave front falters a bit, a grin quirking its way onto her face. “Why don’t I pay you with a kiss?”

Angela lets out a content breath, grinning back at her. “I think that might work.”

Amelie’s hands wind into her hair, much softer and clumsier than before. It’s almost like she’s shy. Their lips meet, the only source of warmth against the cool evening air. 

“Shall we get going, then?”

She glances back into the dark apartment, brushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead. “Can I have a moment to myself, first? I usually say goodbye to him before I leave.”

“Take all the time you need.”

Angela watches as Amelie pushes herself up, going to where she left the portraits, caressing the golden frame in her nimble hands. She can only assume it’s their wedding photo, that familiar ache entering her chest, frowning while she’s turned away. Amelie hugs the photo, muttering things she can’t make out. She calls from inside, “is it alright if I bring this with?”

“Ah, of course!” Angela stands onto weary feet, stretching her arms out. The distant streetlights illuminate her, while Amelie is shrouded in the shadow of the living room. They smile at each other, as if they’re sharing an unspoken inside joke. 

The taxi ride is short and silent. They arrive to Angela’s apartment with excitement in their hearts, scrambling to get through the door. Kicking off their shoes, she flicks on the light. Now is when she would light a cigarette or pour a drink, but Angela feels no need to do either. She just wants to spend the rest of her night with her newfound lover, a strangeness entering her routine. 

They both strip out of their dirty dresses, letting them drop to the bedroom floor, lying on top of the covers. Angela props her head up with a hand, Amelie holding one of the many pillows to her chest. The pair gaze at each other, taking in the sight of bare skin previously unseen, basking in the surprisingly easy intimacy. 

Amelie scoots close to her, a look painting her features reminiscent of a time long since past. Her eyes are filled with a deep, permeating longing. She utters a simple phrase, but it means the world to Angela. “I love you.”


End file.
